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Blue Shirt

Every Sunday for forty years, my father
would choose the same blue shirt
to wear to church.
The cloth faded and grew thin
and some of the buttons
went missing.
(You’d think he had no money.)
Almost as an afterthought
he’d put on a tattered tie, then walk
two blocks to the Methodist Church.
Easing his bony frame down
onto the unpadded wood pew,
he’d wink and say, “I’m sure the Lord doesn’t care
what I look like, but only that I’ve come—
and here I am.”
Now, six weeks after his funeral,
I hug his empty blue shirt
and long to hear him say once more,
“Here I am.”


Poem © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely the product of my imagination. Any resemblances to my own life are purely coincidental.
More Sunday’s Whirligig #151
More Midweek Motif at Poets United: “Money”